Unforseen Complications
by Gray Daisy
Summary: Puppy love, something deeper, sibling rivalry, hijinks, Quidditch, essays, nervousness, happiness, breakfast, OWLS. The things that make up the life of an ordinary Hogwarts student. Follow Molly, Lysander, Lorcan, and Lucy through what would be fondly recalled later in life, those dramatic, unlucky, teenage years.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note**: I've had this sort of thing stewing in my head for a while. I've been writing this during the lull hours at work. Probably the best way to spend my time, actually. This story will cover a few years of Hogwarts life for Molly, Lorcan, Lysander, and Lucy. And a LOT of OCs. Couldn't be without OCs. If you have a problem with them-for example, if you don't like OCs because of a bad experience with them (If you've read My Immortal, I do not blame you, darlings. It's not your fault.) please don't take it out on me. Either read through and don't complain about it, or stop reading. I appreciate reviews. I love you all.

**Here's what you can expect from me**: Weekly updates, 1,000+ word chapters, shout-outs, fan service, and review replies.

**Here's what I expect from you**: Legitimate reviews, constructive criticism, and, occasionally, some ideas.

* * *

Molly's eyes were a light, sad sort of brown. Her hair was the color of a dying fire's embers, and curled around her head in wild, uneven spirals. It was unlike Lucy's, which bobbed in big, fat sausage curls, a pale ginger. Lucy's face was less round than her older sister's—longer, sharper with higher cheekbones. Molly had a wide, bright sort of smile, while Lucy's appeared more of a sneer.

Molly looked like their mother, and Lucy, their father. Lucy was the favorite. The girl who always made Audrey and Percy proud—the Head boy of Gryffindor and one of the top girls of Ravenclaw. Molly sang sweetly as she danced around the house while Lucy obeyed her parents and cleaned. Lucy would scowl at her—charming, a bit dreamy, mysterious and somehow melancholy.

Lucy's favorite part about herself was her nose. It was straight and had a high tip, angled a bit upward. Molly's had a little bump, then was bulbous at the tip, round. Lucy was pale and milky. Molly was, too, but was spattered with freckles, while Lucy was not.

Lucy wanted Molly's charm. Molly wanted the love Lucy received. And so, throughout their childhood, the two avoided each other, tense and on-edge.

"Molly," Lysander twirled a bit of her hair around his index finger inching his face closer to her, "I missed you in Herbology yesterday."They were in the library, edged somewhere in-between the Ancient Wizard-Muggle Involvement isle and the Restricted Section.

Molly snickered, swatting his finger away, dipping her face from his, "I hate Herbology. You always make faces—I end up getting bit by an angry shrub."

"Ah—that's why you sit next to Lo, right? 'Cause he's smarter than me."

"Exactly."Molly nodded vehemently, her curly bob bouncing around her chin.

He laughed, "Ouch." He put a large hand on her shoulder, "It's why I love you, Mol, you're so honest."

She gave and over-exaggerated kissy-face to him, "Love you too, idiot."

"Won't Longbottom get mad at you, not showing up?"

"Longbottom isn't going to upset the minister's daughter," she scoffed, "He won't do anything."

"I see, I see…" He trailed off, looking suddenly anxious. Molly ignored this.

"Are you going to Hogsmeade this weekend?"Lysander said conversationally.

"No,"

"Why not?" He pouted, leaning against the bookcase, which wobbled a bit at his touch.

"Because Uncle George is there—and he's such a tattletale," She said stubbornly, then mocked him, "Oh, look at what Molly's done to her hair, won't you brother? She's cut it all off—Oh, and I saw her with a boy! Blah blah blah."She scowled, "He's only doing it to piss me off, I just know it."

"Well," Lysander admitted, "He _is_ George Weasley."

"Don't remind me."She gave an over-dramatic sniff, and a flounce of her hand, limply, "I'll never be left alone with such famous family."

Lysander snickered, "Mol, really—you'd ought to come. Have a nice butterbeer with me and the mates, buy some sugar quills—you know you love them."

"Can't you just get them for me?" She asked listlessly, having turned around to look at the nearest row of books.

He sighed, "Just, go with me, okay? Please?"

She pouted, "Oh, fine. But only because I love you."

* * *

"Molly!" Andrew picked her up and spun her around, squeezing each ounce of air from her lungs, "I haven't seen you in months!"

Molly choked, and only then did he set her down. "I missed you," the older boy proclaimed, and then glanced over her shoulder, to Lysander: pink-faced and trying too hard to burrow into his red scarf.

Anthony grinned at him—a wide, crooked grin that gave the right cheek a light dimple. Molly loved when Andrew Bosworth smiled. His dark brown hair was shorter than it was the previous year, when he was the Keeper to Molly's Beater on the Ravenclaw house team.

It was impossible not to smile around Andrew. It was like a moth to a flame. He drew her in, made her stomach feel warm and safe, like she was coming home. It was the same as having tea with your mum during winter holiday, she realized. Knowing that you're wanted and much anticipated and very, very welcome. She supposed it was the reaction everyone had to Andrew. Lysander was conversational, then. Laughing occasionally at Andrew's jokes, getting teased and teasing back.

Molly wanted desperately to be a part of something like that—a friendship that never wavered, never faltered or became stiff and polite with time apart. Lysander and Molly were both three years younger than him. He was the Head Boy the year previous—something Lysander knew Lorcan was now aiming for, even in their fifth year.

Lysander only noticed the shift when Molly laughed. It wasn't her normal laugh, a bellow or cackle, depending on what she was laughing at—no, it was a tinkling little ring, her smile hidden behind her open palm. In a matter of minutes, Molly had gone from his childhood playmate to a lady, with expectations and desires and… She was flirting with Andrew. And even more surprising, Andrew was flirting back.

Lysander sat silent for a minute before standing, announcing he had to meet with his brother and Dominique before the hour ended. Molly waved him goodbye dismissively, and he was unsure Andrew noticed him at all.

It all rubbed him the wrong way—Molly glowing in his presence, her gentle, subtle, well-placed words and girlish laugh. He kicked a pile of snow near the door's entrance.

His breath clouded before him. Couples lined the street he was on—trios of girls, pairs of boys, and some, alone like he was, all shuffling about merrily or not, up and down the wide cobbled street.

His stomach blubbled. "Molly." He remembered what she'd said earlier—two days before, when he'd asked her to go.

_Only because I love you._

How had he not noticed that feeling then? It was akin to victory, elation at triumph. He'd won her company over. Or so he thought.

He now realized the feeling as something more romantically inclined.

Shit.


	2. Chapter 2

Lysander paced the alleyway, contemplating. He surely couldn't like Molly. He'd thought of the childhood dares and the ways people had tried to push them together. The three kisses they'd shared in their lifetime of companionship. She was his first kiss—Corbin Abbott, the second cousin of their Herbology teacher's wife, Hannah Abbott Longbottom, had hers at age five.

His mother loved her. Loved her to bits. Her father called her his prodigy-more so than he or his brother, even. Lorcan and she were mates—their families were entwined. Hell, Molly's cousin, Lily, was his mother's namesake. It was a family tradition to love Weasleys, Molly in particular.

A kiss because he didn't know what it meant. A kiss on a dare on his part. A kiss on a dare on hers. He touched his lips, chapped in the cold. Molly. They'd been twelve. Shuffling about in awkward, new found heat between them. Dom dared her to kiss him, and Molly obliged. How had he not noticed the spark then?

He loved her, he realized with a pang of guilt. He loved her so long and she probably knew and was waiting for him. Years upon years of waiting. He sighed, the smell of her hair stuck in his mind, thinking of taking her in his arms and kissing her once more, no dares, no confusion. He thought of her smile at his confession, and her laugh—her _real_ laugh.

And then it hit him, as though he'd just walked into a brick wall. All the air was sucked from his lungs in an instant. He remembered where he'd just come from. Why he left. The way Molly looked at Andrew. The way Andrew looked back, fearless, courageous, more a Gryffindor than Lysander, despite being the Ravenclaw golden child.

And then came the images of Molly and Andrew, wrapped around each other in a heated embrace. His throat seared. How could he compete with Andrew?

It was not like Lysander was not handsome. And he'd had girlfriends before—two, both under four months, but fairly physically serious, both in his fourth year. Well, one was half over summer holiday, but he still counted it fourth year because he broke up with her before September.

Lysander raked a gloved hand through his light brown hair and gnawed his lower lip. His stomach twisted. He couldn't stand it. He couldn't. He couldn't. He just couldn't handle seeing her with _him_.

He slumped down against the back wall of George Weasley's shop, just as the owner trudged out, wincing at the cold.

"Oh, hello there. Are you dying? Would you like Angie to make you a poultice? She's rather good at those."

Lysander managed a laugh, "Only on the inside."

"Oh. This wouldn't have anything to do with my niece, would it?"

Lysander was glad his face was already flushed from the cold. "No."

"Ah, well. I'll grab you some chocolate, anyway—fresh from Honeydukes: Angie'll never know."

Lysander stood, thanked the Weasley for his kindness, and followed him in through the back of the store.

* * *

Lucy was saddled between two of her three dorm mates: Mary, pale, stout, brutally honest but kind, stringy brown hair that reached her back; Sarah, black, willowy, short-cropped black hair that hung over her ears a bit; Francine, chubby, tan, a wide grin and surprisingly slender hands always running though her glossy dark brown hair. And then Lucy, tossed unceremoniously between Sarah and Francine, Mary trailing behind.

In the crowds, nothing was highly discernible. It was snowing and cold, she knew because she was right beside a window overlooking Hogsmeade and the lake. They could see the carriages bringing the upperclassmen back.

Sarah expressed her wish for a warm drink. Mary snorted and told her to man-up. They were still at Hogwarts, crowded with the hundred or so other students too young to go to Hogsmeade on the weekends. Instead, the four girls would wait with the rest of their classmates and underclassmen and cluster in the Great Hall and by the heavy front door to their school and wait for the return of the rest of the student body.

Hugo and one of his friends—Lucy's maternal cousin, Lucas Davies, the younger brother of Roger Davies II, who was gallivanting with his lovely girlfriend Heather Clearwater in Hogsmeade—were talking mutedly against the wall adjacent to her and her cluster. She craned her neck to get a look at him.

Hugo, his hair just like his mother's—one of her few paternal cousins to not have inherited the red hair, the Weasley trait. It made her feel less alone, now that her orange hair was fading into brown as she reached the cusp of adolescence. She, Victoire, Roxanne, James, Albus, and Hugo were all to grow up Weasleys—not in the Potter's case, but very well, half-Weasley—without the one thing their clan was known for.

Lucy was intensely jealous of their hair—gleaming like fire in the light, shining like crimson thread in the dark… Even Freddie's hair had a reddish tint to it, and she pouted at the thought.

The commotion of the crowd shifted. Older siblings and friends swarmed in, covered in snow, faces flushed, bearing gifts. Lucy tiptoed the edge of the fluctuating swarm, people grouping off into twos and threes and fours. She looked for Molly. Lily found her first.

It is a notable point that Lucy never liked Lily. Never liked the look of her. Her long, ginger hair or freckled face or dimples or demeanor. She acted haughty, to those her age, trailed behind the older children. Lucy was the only one, it seemed, to have a problem with her.

Maybe it was because she got all the attention, just because her mother was the famous Ginny Weasley, just because her father was a would-be martyr: something they'd taught them in that first, eager year at Hogwarts. Lucy's parents were important, too. Her mother was a healer in the Curses and Hexes Ward at Saint Mungo's, and her father was the bloody Minister of Magic—six years running!

But even if that were the case—popularity being a contest of who was the child of whom, Lucy would still get overlooked for the more beautiful, more artistic, more charming Molly. Molly with the red hair. Molly with the lovely smile. Molly, Molly, Molly.

Audrey had tried to disperse any sort of sibling rivalry. After all, hadn't she fought for years with her brother, only to have him die in the Battle of Hogwarts on bad terms?

Lucy ought to treat Molly better, she knew. She knew, even after losing two uncles to a war she wasn't alive to see; even after she cried for hours after Molly left—three years, Molly left for months and months without Lucy. Audrey always loved them equally, she promised, and still, Lucy felt jealousy crawling, seeping back into her skin.

"You and Molly are my greatest treasures," she told Lucy once. "My mum used to tell my brothers and me there were no favorites, but…" She gave a pained face, "She loved our brother, me and Eric's, our Roger… She loved him best, because he was the smartest, the fastest, the strongest… But you and Molly, oh, you and your sister, Lucy." She kissed Lucy's forehead.

"Mummy loved you both since before you two were born," Audrey swore. "I'm so terribly lucky to have two darlings who balance each other out. I love the pieces that make you, you. And the pieces that make her, her. There could never be a favorite."

Lucy tried to remember the feeling of losing Molly those three times as she saw her give a small paper bag to Lily. She tried to think of Molly dying when they had a row. She tried to remember that Mummy loved them equally, that Molly, despite being the older sister, had no claim to their entire parent's love.

She tried to remember all those things as she cried. Because it wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that Molly forgot it was her thirteenth birthday, and was giving that stupid Lily presents in her place. It wasn't fair that Mummy and Daddy were too busy to visit her, even on a weekend—"Next time, love, I promise!"—and it certainly wasn't fair that Molly had gotten their mother's good looks, and her art skills and her smile and Lucy just got their father's sneer and bad eyes.

Lucy ran upstairs, and Mary was on her heels. Mary was older than her—her birthday was in October, so she'd been thirteen for three months, by then—and bustier than her, and Lucy got jealous about that too, and then she just cried harder.

She tripped up the stairs to her Gryffindor dormitory, and scraped her knee. More tears. The sat on her bed, wrapped her arms around her knees and cried. Only then did she notice the blood on her leg, the ache in her back, the soreness of her budding chest.

Molly came into her room later to say Mother Nature had delivered to her the shittiest birthday present ever given.


	3. Chapter 3

Her mother ended up coming early the next morning. Percy was nowhere to be found. It was a crisp, clear morning, the freshly fallen snow only now beginning to become trudged through. The sun was hardly over the horizon. Frost was edging towards the center of the lake.

Lucy was crying again when her mother came into her room.

"Oh, Lou." Audrey was as lovely as ever. Wide smile, large, piercing light brown eyes, her face pink from the cold. Her robes were maroon, lines with silver thread. She made a pitying face to her youngest.

"How are you holding up?" She asked, crossing the distance between them—Gryffindor and Ravenclaw, daughter and mother. She sat on the bed beside her. Lucy gave a great sniff. "Can I go home?"

Audrey found it hard not to laugh at Lucy, then. "It will only last a few days more, I promise. Three or four at the most." Lucy groaned, "Can I, please?"

"No, darling, you can't." Audrey stroked her daughter's back and sighed, thinking of a change of topic, "Did you get your father's present?"

"The broom care set?" She sniffed, looking up. Blue eyes meet brown.

"Yeah," her mother nodded, "Eric said it got delayed until supper, but you weren't there to get it. I was worried you hadn't. Molly didn't even get her present to you."

"Molly got me a present?"

Audrey looked puzzled, "Of course she did. The set of sugar quills? For when you get bored in History of Magic?"

Lucy shook her head.

"Oh, I'm sure you'll get it today, then. It must have slipped her mind."

"I think…"

"What?"

"I think she gave it to Lily."Lucy admitted.

Audrey scoffed, "That ridiculous. Of course she didn't."

"But I saw her," the second-year protested. Audrey rolled her eyes.

"Lily asked Molly to get a present in Hogsmeade. For you."Audrey laughed, "Her mother wrote to me about it—thought it was the sweetest thing."

"I hate Lily."Lucy scowled.

Her mother looked astonished, "Why?"

"You've not been around her for five minutes, mum! She's awful. She's nasty."

"How so?" Audrey seemed a little amused. Lucy had always gotten along so well with her cousins. She loved Victoire—was her little follower up until Victoire started becoming interested in boys (which was around the age of fourteen or so, when Lucy was only eight.) By the time Lucy was ten, she befriended those who weren't relatives.

And she developed a sort of distaste for those who shared her blood. It took a long while to explain this sort of thing to her mother.

Lorcan was holed up in the coldest corner of the library, bundled under two sweaters and jeans. Muggle clothing and no robes—it was the sort of thing that was common for a weekend. Not for him, however.

He rarely wore Muggle clothing, preferring his casual—if not worn—robes to the restricting outfits the non-magic folk preferred. But, there was a special reason he wore this particular outfit, in this particular place.

There was a girl. What else could it be than that? Well, for starters, it could be a boy, but Lorcan hadn't found a boy he'd ever liked romantically, so he fancied himself straight for now, forever.

Her name was Olivia Griffiths. She was a fourth year Hufflepuff, and she loved the outfits Muggles wore—wearing them under her robes, instead of separate robe layers, or the standard school uniform. (Even if the standard school uniform had evolved to something rather Muggle-esque)

She had long hair—to her waist, glossy and pin-straight, dark brown. She wore a red-knit hat and a white, tight sweater and a skirt. And something else Lorcan found he liked—black tights. A short skirt and black tights. It's what got him.

His stomach twisted, his breath caught. She sat at the same table as he had been, days before, when they met—reading a Muggle novel, of a title he couldn't fully recall. He knew her parentage, from asking around, and she was a full-blood witch. Her father was cousins with Professor Longbottom's mother, hence the surname and her mother was a Dearborn, and so she was even distantly related to the Weasley-Potter clan.

She was pretty. She was so pretty. And even in the dead of winter, she smelled of flowers. He wondered if she'd dowsed herself in unicorn pheromones', or some sort of cologne eau de Love Potion. He didn't care. He wanted to grab her, take her in.

She smiled at him in the Dining hall. He was so happy he could have cried. He realized in a moment of sane clarity he was infatuated—he knew nothing of this girl other than she was a full-blooded witch, who was obsessed with Muggle clothing and literature. And the fact that she smelled wonderful.

He knew, unlike so many other boys his age that followed his same conduct, that if he approached her, he would be over-bearing, and creepy, and awkward. It did not sway the temptation, however, the need to speak to her. To tell her how he felt.

"You're cute," She said in the silence of the library. He'd been pretending to not notice her; it had been killing him slowly. It had been painfully rotting his insides, not being able to talk to her.

"Excuse me?"

"You think I don't see you?" She laughed, "You've been staring at me the past three days."

"O-oh," he managed to choke, "I… Yeah."

"I think it's cute."

"… Thank you?"

She smiled. It wasn't her real smile, he could tell. Her lips were too pursed, and her head was dipped low, so she looked at him through artificially long eyelashes. Her eyes were dark blue. He swooned.

"You like me?"

He coughed awkwardly into his hand and did not reply.

"Well?"

"I," he avoided her eyes, "You're rather blunt, aren't you?"

She reached her hand across the table, "I'm Olivia, Griffiths. Maybe you've heard of me. Maybe not."

"Well." He swallowed, "Nice to meet you, Olivia. I'm Lorcan."

She grinned, "I know. Your grandfather's books are great."

He paused, "Paternal or maternal…?"

She pouted, "Both, I suppose. Paternal, more."

"Ah." He felt there was nothing more to say. "I do, though."

"What?"

"Your question, earlier. I do like you."

"Oh," she smiled, "Fancy a date, then?"

"Where?"

"Next Hogsmeade trip. Three weeks from now."

"So far?" She smiled at his words, "Yes. You can wait."

He felt he was being played, but he was so sure he'd enjoy the game it bothered him little.

Molly had kissed Andrew. She had kissed him and he'd kissed back and her uncle had seen. Her uncle did not seem amused.

But he had always been amused by that sort of thing. With Molly's kisses to Corbin Abbott, Lysander, to the other various boys throughout her years in the Muggle school circuit.

He had fled to his shop, Lysander and his red scarf sulking behind. Her stomach felt odd.

Was Lysander mad at her? Did he fancy Andrew? She knew they were friends, and Lysander had always seemed a bit… Ambiguous. Sort of. He and Lorcan were late bloomers. They were only just taller than Dominique—five feet, eleven inches. She could remember a time in their fourth year that she was two inches taller than them. Their feminine appearance had always made her think of them as girls.

It only crossed her mind, in a brief, fleeting series of thoughts, that maybe Lysander liked her. She dismissed it quickly. Lysander didn't like her, they were mates. Lysander liked… Dominique or her dorm-mate Sophia, or that pretty girl from Slytherin—Leah Harper, who'd been flirting with him at Quidditch matches recently.

It didn't stick in her head until later.

Perhaps he'd brought George over to talk to Andrew—who'd mentioned a few times that he was looking for better-paying work in Hogsmeade than at Honeydukes, where he'd been previously—about work at the newer WWW, and was unhappy that his lips were too busy kissing hers to talk about work and galleons and such, and perhaps Lysander was just pissed off at being third-wheeled, and she would apologize to him and then point out that his girlfriends had always third-wheeled her and he only deserved it a little and then they would drink tea and laugh.

She was sure that was it. But when she tried to explain to her, he made a pained face and said nothing. He just got into a different carriage and went on, leaving her to kiss Andrew—thoroughly confused at Lysander's behavior, too, but happy Molly was kissing him—goodbye, with promises of visits and letters and dates in the future.

Things had happened so quickly that day. Lucy running off in tears, then her newly found womanhood, then Lysander ignoring her at dinner, and Lorcan making googley eyes at a young Hufflepuff, and Sophia was holding hands with Eric Davies and everything rushed around her, suddenly things were different.

Things had become so different in a matter of twelve hours. That was when she traced it back, Twelve hours, and things had changed. Twelve hours where things started, then molded into what they now were.

Whatever they were now. She decided not to write her mum about Andrew, or Lysander, and just said she had fun in Hogsmeade.


	4. Chapter 4

**Warning: **Over-dramatic teenage angst, minor language, and I think that's about it thank-you-very-much.

* * *

Andrew was going to be a healer. He liked card games, but he was awfully competitive. He was sweet. He was politically conscious. He had rubbish taste in music and excellent taste in films. He was tall and blue eyed and sensible. Very sensible. He wasn't Teddy. He wasn't Corbin Abbott. He wasn't Mr. Darcy.

He most certainly wasn't Lysander.

Andy was simple, doting, and Andy didn't make her ache like this. Not like Lysander. _He's gone. He's gone. He's run away._

* * *

By the first week of March, Lysander had dropped all contact with Molly Weasley entirely. It had taken a while. He'd tried to talk to her. They made eye contact in shared classes, even if he didn't make faces to her anymore. But that week, March third, he'd look away every time her eyes found him. Each time she tried to talk to him, he ignored her. Sometime in February, he got a girlfriend—which was all fine and dandy, she cared little—and then another girlfriend, and then another. The last two overlapped, because she could hear the two Hufflepuff girls arguing outside the library one night.

And after that, Lysander attended thirty percent of his classes before disappearing. Luna, his mother, was hysterical, distressed. His father was stoic, weary and gripped tightly onto his wife, keeping a close eye on his older, less impulsive son.

Somehow, Rolf reminded Molly of Lysander, but not Lorcan. It was a ridiculous notion, really, because Lorcan was his identical twin, but she couldn't shake it. It was the way the two held themselves. Lorcan was like Luna, in some ways, in his polite smile, in the way he walked silently, a dreamy look on his face.

But Lysander, the damn boy, hell if he didn't make an entrance. His shoulders were squared back, his chin high. Arrogance, only a hint of it, really, but there nonetheless. She could see it in the way Rolf looked at people. No doubt he was kind—there was sweetness in his tired despair that remained unspoken. Sweeter than his son, but the two were similar in ways she could only hardly place.

And he'd been gone two days, two whole, long, achingly desperate days, before George told her he'd found the boy wandering angrily around Hogsmeade in the night on the thirteenth of March, and then cried and yelled and cursed and said he'd never loved anyone and was ready to off himself and then tried to leave. She'd never known Lysander to be so aggressively depressive. She'd never known him to cry out for attention. She'd never known him to care for anything so deeply as to take his own life.

It cut her deeply. It cut her in ways she didn't know anything could. She felt betrayed, abandoned, hated by one of the few people she truly trusted. And he hated her now, because she'd chosen the kiss of an older boy over his friendship. In her head, it felt like she was jamming two puzzle pieces together that didn't quite fit, but her intuition had never been very good, so she ignored it.

* * *

She wrote to Andrew as she had been. He wrote her back almost immediately. His cousin—a sixth year student at Durmstrang—had died. He wouldn't be able to visit for a while. He was to spend the rest of the year with his mother in southern England, while she grieved over the loss of another relative—Andrew's cousin's parents, his aunt Rachel and Uncle Cicero, had died in relatively unpleasant ways during the cousin's childhood, and had been sent to live with Andrew and his mum.

She didn't write back. She remembered vaguely someone mentioning—probably Aunt Hermione—that they taught dark magic at Durmstrang, that wizards got pitted against wizards and hexes occurred every day. He didn't mention how he died. Didn't even mention his name. She wondered if they were close.

She decided they weren't. Her reasoning: he'd not mentioned his name. Not once. Not ever. Only mentioned in two or three stories in the five years Molly had known Andrew, as "my cousin".

Molly was blissfully unaware of the pain of really losing a relative, despite the pain her grandmother, for whom she was named, had felt at the loss of both her siblings, and her son.

* * *

Lysander returned home for a week before attending classes regularly. He was restricted from Hogsmeade visits for the rest of the year. He wouldn't look at her. He only talked to Dominique.

He held hands with Dominique. Smiled at her the way he smiled at Molly. That was Molly's smile. It was saved for her. Whenever she saw them, gleeful, their hands in a knot, their faces etched into smiles… She scowled. She crossed her arms and felt the need to throw a fit, but instead turned tail and left.

She had no room to be jealous, of course. It's not like she was, exactly. She missed Andrew. Andrew who didn't make her mad. Andrew who was simple and thoughtful and kind. Andrew who was _not_ like Lysander, the betrayer. She felt how she expected Lysander must have felt. Like a third wheel. But of course, Molly hadn't hooked up with one of his better-looking cousins, not completely ignored him and shoved past him in the hallway, avoided conversation at all. Molly was miffed. Both at Dominique—if they broke up, Molly was sure to be ostracized by her family for talking to him at all, ever—and Lysander—the dumb bastard

There were rumors about the castle, now. It was no secret that rumors spread fast along the walls of a secluded school that thrived on drama, but the subject of these rumors is what surprised her. She and Lysander had been having what could only be described as an affair.

Molly, of course, had been the one to break it off. Lysander and she had a row—apparently, one or two of those girls Lysander had been hanging around had seen them fighting (which had never happened; Molly was confused at this point in the story, but Sophia, the explainer of gossip and beholder of truths and relayer of them to the whole of the student body, continued breathlessly, dramatically.) outside the Gryffindor common room, (at which point Molly asked why the two were outside the Gryffindor common room anyway, because the Hufflepuff common room was hidden in the dungeons, and Sophia told her to shut up until she was done and went on) and then apparently Molly hexed him and declared her undying love for Andrew (Molly scoffed) and then admitted she'd given herself to Lysander, but it was Andrew's baby in her belly.

Then, Molly had stood up, wand in hand; ready to curse those who spread and believed the ridiculous, uncalled-for rumor, but Sophia calmed her.

"You'd be stupid to do that sort of thing. Only tarts defend their honor with violence."

"How do you mean?"

"Like, if Lucy or su'mming went and told an embarrassing, but true, story, you'd wanna hit her, right?"

Molly sat down. "I suppose."

"Right. Well, same's for boy-trouble rumors. If you're wanting to keep su'mming a secret and some slags go and spread it all around, you'd want 'em to shut it, right? Right." She paused, "Don't try to put out a fire, Molly, when you'll just end up fanning the flames."


	5. Chapter 5

Lily Luna Potter had always loved Frank Longbottom. Lily had known this from infancy, it seemed. She was sure she'd marry him, have little blonde and ginger babies—for his hair was like that of his mother and father, and hers like her mother—and perhaps she'd even have a dark haired baby that looked like her father, or his grandfather. She smiled at thoughts like these.

She did not know, however, that Frank Longbottom was having these thoughts, same as her. But, oh, not about Lily. About Lucy.

He was a year above them. A third year, thirteen, same as Lucy—only a few months older than Lily, on both parts—slender-faced with rosy cheeks and brown eyes. His ears were large, like his father's had been, but the largeness of them seemed only endearing.

Lucy fancied him, same as Lily. But of course Lily overshadowed her. Lily with her dark orange hair and big doe eyes and charming smile. She was only twelve, but she was so pretty. Prettier than Lucy would ever be.

But "pretty" wasn't exactly what Frank was looking for. A girl who didn't take herself so seriously, as Lily did. A girl with a rare smile. A girl who he could study and laugh with.

Lucy, for once, appreciated her hair. It was, by late March, almost completely brown, save for glimmers of orange, when the light caught it correctly. Frank mentioned idly, in Potions, (for they were always partners, with Lily grouped elsewhere, with a different girl from a different house, looking jealously over at Lucy.) that it looked particularly nice when she kept it tied in a neat plait. She turned pink and he ignored it. He did not continue with his compliments.

Lucy swooned. From that day on—it was almost April, by that time—she wore her hair in a tight, neat braid, tied with either a red or gold bow, depending on the day. Lily once wore a braid, for Lucy had made the mistake of mentioning his comment in her presence once, in the common room—to Mary and Sarah, who giggles and talked of love potions and who then on made sure Lucy could outshine her naturally graceful cousin—and she wore one. It suited her more, Lucy realized with a sinking feeling, but someone (in retrospect, it was probably Francine, but Lucy hadn't heard who'd said it at the time) who said Lily looked better in pigtails, which she usually wore, and that it seemed like she was trying to steal something Lucy had started. Lily avoided the question with etiquette and grace, as she always did, but ceased to wear them, except, perhaps, if she wore braids in her pigtails.

It was the only time Lucy could ever remember winning over Lily. Lucy's dorm-mates said they had nothing against her cousin—she was a sweet girl, the admitted after a harsh round of criticisms, but she got things easily because she was the loveliest girl. It was unfair to girls like Lucy, who were also nice to look at, even if they weren't so pretty as Ginny's only daughter.

So, really, their being cruel to Lily was only because they were fair and needed to balance things out.

* * *

She realized she had fallen for Lysander around the same time she noticed Molly did. They were twelve. Dominique and Lysander were in the same house. They were friends. They had loads in common and she had known his for ages.

But she wasn't Molly, so she got looked over.

She was competitive to a fault, she also realized, after she won, over Molly, in the spring of 2020. Lysander was handsome and thoughtful and impulsive. He cared for rules but disregarded them easily with enough convincing. He held his hands at her waist when they kissed and they never strayed much farther than that.

Yes, she realized, she loved him. Dearly.

And yes, she realized, he still loved Molly, just as much as he always had. It was so easy to see, when you were on the outside looking in, that Molly and Lysander were one of those couples that was just _meant to be_. No one could compare.

He gave Molly this look—he looked at nothing else when she was around, fixated completely on her, undistracted, enchanted by each words she said. They talked easily and for hours.

But Dominique was not unhappy to see their lifelong friendship fall apart. She wasnted Lysander. She wanted him to look at her that way, wanted to be noticed above Molly or Victoire or anyone who overshadowed her.

She knew, of course she knew, that he was using her. Either to forget about his achingly obvious love for her cousin, or to make Molly realize she loved him as well. Dominique had a plan.

She didn't care—he could love Molly. But Molly could not love him. Or, at least, not realize she did. Molly could not realize Andrew was just a temporary fixation to something much more meaningful and much more heart-breaking when she realized. And Dominique knew she would, eventually. She just needed to make sure Lysander no longer wanted the dismissive, cruelly oblivious Molly by then.

Lysander liked Dominique, as well. He'd _liked_ all his previous girlfriends—from Emily Montague, to Madison Dearborn, even to the taken, lovely, Heather Clearwater affair. He wondered if they ever noticed the way Molly made him feel. He wondered if his fourth year girlfriends—Abby Jones and Miranda Jordan—had known even before he did. Didn't Miranda accuse him of fancying Molly, then? Oh, yes, he recalled. It was laughable now, that it had taken him years to notice. It made him feel stupid.

Which he supposed he was. What was he thinking? Dating Dominique so thoughtlessly. He was going to ruin everything. He could have told Molly, at the very least. He could have told her seeing her was too painful. She was his best mate, his confidant, and even Lorcan didn't understand him the way Molly did. He didn't understand how to communicate with him the way she did.

Which was also peculiar, he noted, because weren't identical twins supposed to be, like, able to divinate the other's thoughts?

But Molly. Oh, Mollymollymollymolly. What was he to do? He saw her almost every hour of the day, in classes or the corridors, at lunch and breakfast and supper… Running away seemed like the best option. He'd aimed home, first. But He'd gotten to Hogsmeade and didn't know how to apparate, so he wandered, mad, until George found him.

He was getting fonder of the uncle every day.

So, in the end, the night before the start of April, he resolved to forget about damn Molly who wasn't worth all the fuss anyway, and focus on Dom, who was so pretty and nice and smart and thoughtful and who gave him sweet looks and was a year older which raised his status, socially.

Dom, of course, didn't mind in the slightest at his newest resolution.


End file.
